And now here was Terry.
There were questions of course. Lots of questions. What had happened to him? Where had he been? Was he kidnapped? The truth lodged in Terry’s throat like a bowling ball. What could he tell the poor bastards after all? What could he say without being consigned to the loony bin? That he was busy saving another world? That he went to war with a wicked queen and her inhuman army? That he’d done all that and still lost the love of his life?
Chapter Three: Chaotic Evil
A VILLAGE LAY in ruins. Where houses once stood, kindling remained, and among it all, bodies: the sorry, flattened wrecks of halflings foolish enough to stand up to the troll giant.
Clive shielded his eyes from the sun and watched as the surviving villagers fled in droves, their cries retreating into the hills. They wouldn’t get far. With a wave of the Durkon rod of power he allowed the five trolls making up the toes of the giant’s left foot to detach, then sent them after the fleeing villagers. He could afford to spare them. He had plenty more meat to work with here.
Clive pointed to the dead below and the giant followed his command, scooping up the smashed bodies with its spare hand and squashing them into the flank of its thigh. With each new piece of meat the monster added to its body, it grew. A sculpture adding its own clay. Clive cackled as the giant boosted him higher into the sky; high enough soon to strike at heaven itself. High enough to light it on fire. What use was paradise anyway? His journey had taught him the value of goodness. Of virtue. Of friendship. They were worthless things, idiotic and feeble. Power: now there was a thing of value! A man with power could make the world his own, and that was precisely what he intended to do.
Clive ordered his giant to make its way to the bank of the river so he could see his reflection. He looked down at the water with his one good eye and flexed the giant’s bicep; a preening teenager admiring his puberty muscles. As he continued to marvel at his handiwork, the surface of the water rippled and broke. Emerging impossibly from the river as if riding an underwater cherry picker, came Carnella the Cruel.
Startled, Clive shrank from the surprise visitor, causing his steed to do likewise. The giant rocked back on its enormous heels, almost keeling over backwards before Clive managed to collect himself and right the thing. Carnella simply watched, bemused, standing upon the water like some evil Jesus.
Angry at being made to look foolish, Clive had his giant snatch Carnella from the surface of the water. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, bringing her to his eye-level.
Carnella spoke calmly and assuredly, fashioning her words in soft, lilting syllables. “I came to congratulate you,” she said. “You’ve come so far, and in so little time.”
Clive sneered. “Shouldn’t you be with your daughter?”
“My daughter is dead,” she replied.
“You don’t sound too put out by that.”
“The girl banished my soul to limbo and usurped my throne. Forgive me if I keep my tears to myself.”
Clive brought Carnella closer; so close she could smell his vinegary breath over the stench of the giant’s rotting meat. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t crush you right now.”
“Because I can help you,” Carnella replied. “This creation of yours is impressive, but it will need more meat on the bone before it’s of a size to breach the citadel.”
“And what makes you think I’d want to do that?”
“I can see it in you, child. You have the appetite and you have the will. That much was obvious the moment I met you.”
Clive thought back to their first encounter. It was true, she had counselled Drensila to make an ally of him instead of ordering his execution. “And what about you?” Clive asked. “When all this is done, won’t you want your throne back?”
Carnella laughed. “I’m too long in the tooth to rule an empire. My reward will be the death of the interlopers.”
Clive had his giant tighten its grasp on Carnella, squeezing her as if she were a bath toy. “You forget,” he hissed, “I’m one of those interlopers.”
“No,” wheezed Carnella, at his mercy, “you belong here.”
The trolls making up each of the giant’s fingers relaxed as Clive loosened his grip.
“Go on,” he said.
THE TIME HAD come to mend these Broken Lands. Nat had a responsibility to put things right. The mere fact of her being there had upset the natural balance, but at least her interference had been accidental. Clive had gone out of his way to mess things up. He’d proven himself a spiteful double-crosser since deserting them, with an axe to grind and the power to make it very sharp indeed. To restore harmony, Nat would have to put him out of commission, whatever that took.
Finding Clive meant venturing beyond the citadel walls and into uncharted territory, so Nat gathered the rest of the party in the banquet hall and selected a party of travelling companions.
“You, you and you,” she said, pointing across a table to Eathon. Galanthre and Tidbit.
Ashley failed to hear his name called. “You missed us out, fam.”
“No, I didn’t,” Nat assured him. “You’re staying here. Neville too.”
Ash jumped to his feet. “What you chattin’ about?” he blurted.
“Yeah,” said Neville. “What’s going on?”
“I need a strong arm and a big brain to stay here and guard the citadel while the rest of us are gone,” Nat told them.
Ashley was having none of it. He’d earned his stripes, even if he did wear them more Tynchy Stryder than Aragorn Strider. He jabbed a finger at Eathon. “Let him kick it here and I’ll run with yous.”
“I need him out there,” Nat replied. “It’s not personal.”
“Right,” said Nev. “It’s just a coincidence that we get stuck babysitting while you road trip with your boyfriend.”
“Eathon’s not my boyfriend,” Nat cried, her chest flushing pink.
“That’s right,” said Eathon, lighting up with a hot rush of blood to the face.
Galanthre cut in. “She’s right to want you here,” she told Ash. “You’re a worthy fighter, which is why you need to stay behind and look after our people.”
“You’re sick with a sword an’ all,” said Ashley. “So why ain’t you chilling in the yards with the rest of us?”
“Because I know the terrain out there better than anyone. Plus I’m an excellent tracker, whereas I doubt the Chosen One here could track a pack of timber wolves across a fresh bed of snow.” She turned to Nat. “No offence.”
“Plenty taken,” Nat decided.
WHEN WORD ARRIVED that one of the missing Ongar teenagers had shown up alive, the authorities were quick to get involved. The moment the call came in, the Essex Police dispatched two plainclothes officers to Terry’s address: Detectives Black and Decker.
“Don’t bother, we’ve heard them all,” they joked as Terry’s parents met them at the door and let them inside.
Having accepted an offer of tea and sandwiches cut into triangles, the detectives took a seat on the spare settee and got down to business. Terry was instructed to sit opposite, only there wasn’t a chair there, so he had to make do with settling cross-legged on the floor while the officers loomed over him like a pair of scary headmasters.
“How are you feeling, Terry?” asked D.I. Black, whose head looked like a pink balloon with a wig on top.
“Okay,” croaked Terry.
D.I. Decker regarded him with interest. Physically, he stood in stark contrast to his partner; blessed with a tough, chiselled face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Easter Island. “We’re going to ask you some questions about your disappearance, Mister Sloman. Is that okay?”
Terry nodded, though in truth he knew he’d be of no use to them. Since he returned to Earth his adventures in The Broken Lands had faded from his mind, brushed away like a Tibetan sand sculpture.
D.I. Black popped open a notebook and licked the tip of his pencil. “From what we’ve been told, you and your fr
iends, Nat Lawler, Ashley Brooks and Clive Snyder made a trip to Epping Forest on the morning of the Eighth of July, is that correct?”
“Sounds about right,” replied Terry, hoping his fuzziness wasn’t mistaken for petulance.
“I see,” said Black, scribbling a note. “And you travelled there in a van registered to Mister Snyder, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us where Mister Snyder and the rest of your friends are now?”
Terry’s jaw clenched like he was chewing phantom gum. “No,” he said.
Nearby, Terry’s mum winced. “He says he doesn’t remember,” she interjected.
“Is that right?” said Decker, stroking his chin. “And why might that be?”
“We think he might be concussed,” replied Terry’s mum.
“I see. And is he showing any signs of concussion?”
“I think so.”
“Are you a medical professional, Mrs Sloman?”
She wrung her hands. “No, but…” The sentence trailed off.
“Sorry,” said Decker, “don’t mean to nitpick, just being thorough.”
It was a real Sun newspaper of an apology, written in small print and buried on page thirty-two.
D.I. Black changed the subject. “Looks like you hurt you hands there, son,” he said, noting the skinned knuckles Terry had given himself when he whaled on a tree back in Epping Forest. “How did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Terry replied. “It’s like mum says, I’ve forgotten everything.”
The words fell on the detectives’ ears like seeds on frozen ground.
Decker leaned forward in his chair. “You forgot that too, did you?” he clarified, then turned to his partner. “Make sure you get that, D.I. Black.”
Black scribbled another note. “I don’t suppose that injured hand has anything to do with your missing girlfriend, does it?” he asked, going back a page in his book. “Miss Nat Lawler?”
“No,” blurted Terry, “of course not.”
“And yet you said just now...” he flipped back a page to quote him, “That you “forgot everything”?” Terry hesitated. “By any chance did you and Miss Lawler get into an altercation on the Eighth of July?” Black asked, looking up from his writing.
“What are you saying?” Terry started. “That I did her in? Ash and Clive too?”
“We’re not saying anything, Mister Sloman. You are.”
Decker leaned forward some more; so close that Terry could see the pockmarks on his granite skin. “If I were you,” suggested Decker, “I’d have a good, long think about what happened during that trip to those woods.”
Terry met his eye contemptuously. “I already told you, I don’t remember. All I know is we went out there to LARP. That’s it.”
“LARP,” repeated Decker, eating the word up like a hungry boy scoffing a buttered muffin. “I had to look that up when your mum mentioned it on the phone. It’s when you dress in robes and go to the forest with weapons, isn’t it?”
“They’re not weapons, they’re made of—”
“—I heard the whole thing’s tied up with devil worship and blood sacrifice,” said Black, his expression darkening. “They made a film about it in the Eighties. Had Tom Hanks in it.”
“Is that right?” asked Decker. “So tell us, Terry, were you out there meddling with dark forces?”
Terry’s mum stepped in, upset. “I think that’s enough for now...”
Black ignored her. “What was it, Terry, some kind of twisted suicide pact?”
For the first time since they arrived, Terry’s dad got up to speak. “I’m sorry, detectives,” he told them, “but if you want to carry on this discussion we're going to need a lawyer present.”
Black and Decker looked to one another. They were not pleased.
Chapter Four: Grimdark
IT WAS DECIDED that the hunt for Clive Snyder would begin at the point he was last seen: the gondola station on the opposite bank of the Durkon Chasm.
Taking the most direct route, Nat and her companions rode across the crevasse in the citadel’s cable car, rocking softly in the arms of a gentle breeze. The storm front that had battered the region had finally moved on and the rain dried up, bringing a glorious Indian summer to the land (or whatever the equivalent was in these parts). Nat admired the passing view through the car’s window. The weather was bright and empty, save for the occasional wisp of cloud drifting across the sky like strands of pulled cotton.
The party arrived on the opposite side of the chasm and set foot from the gondola station onto a grey, cracked plain smattered with the skeletons of petrified trees. Despite their glum surroundings—not to mention the fact she was laden with enough supplies to keep her a fortnight in the wild—Nat was excited. She’d never been shy of a hike – quite the opposite in fact. Back in high school she’d been the first in her year to volunteer for a week-long orienteering expedition across the Brecon Beacons, and she’d loved every minute of it. Now she thought about it, the trip they were about to take reminded her a lot of her Duke of Edinburgh Award. A close-knit group of travellers using their navigational skills to chart a speedy course across unfamiliar terrain. The only notable difference with this hike was the distinct likelihood of a slaughter at the end of it.
The party continued on in search of the trail that would lead them to Clive. Nat stooped to examine the ground, hoping to find some telltale sign of Clive’s heading—track marks in the dust or a broken blade of grass perhaps—but found precious little. Galanthre, who had her eye on the bigger picture, found something else of note. Leading from the mouth of the cursed troll pit were a series of mammoth footprints, each of which measured about five metres in length. She directed the Chosen One’s attention to the proverbial wood beyond the trees.
“Holy shit,” said Nat, mincing no words. “What the hell made those things? Some kind of giant?”
Galanthre stepped into one of the prints, leaving only her head and shoulders above ground. “Something far worse I fear.”
Nat’s eyes followed the path of footprints as they retreated into the distance as far as the eye could see. “This is good though, right? If Clive crossed paths with something this dangerous, he must be dogmeat.”
Cleaver’s metal nostrils twitched. “I dunno about dogmeat, but I smell troll meat.”
Flies buzzed about the footprints, lazy and gorged. Nat swatted them away. “Come on, dude – a troll with a footprint this size?”
Eathon’s demeanour turned sour. “Powerful magics have been worked here. Magics of a new kind.”
“There’s no sign of the human’s body,” noted his sister. “If he’d truly met his end, I’d expect to find his remains in one of these footprints.”
Tidbit shook his head. “Ah fear whateva this creature is, it’s wukkin in league wi’yer deserta.”
“What are you saying?” said Nat. “That Clive hitched a ride on a giant troll?”
From the looks on her companions’ faces, that was exactly what they were saying.
Cleaver grinned, happy as a dog with two dicks. “Well then,” he said, “let’s give this herbert a seeing-to, shall we?”
CLIVE SNYDER AND Carnella the Cruel had formed a most unlikely alliance. Looking like some peculiar May to December couple, they made passage across the land upon the troll giant, each sat upon one of the monster’s upturned palms. Along the course of their journey they came across packs of wandering trolls, leftovers from Drensila’s reign, drawn to the new wielder of the Durkon rod of power. They swarmed from all four corners of the continent, and as Clive and his companion passed them by, they latched onto the giant’s heels and scaled its legs to take their place among the rest of the troll army. Hundreds came to give their bodies to the whole, packing extra layers of muscle onto the giant’s frame, strengthening its sinews and forcing its head higher into the sky. Clive needed more though. To ensure domination he would need fresh meat, and plenty of it.
Clive remaine
d in the centre of the giant’s right palm, eyes closed, emaciated body contorted into a half-lotus while his mind quested outwards.
Through space.
Through time.
Off into the future, to divine his own destiny.
The glimpses he was rewarded with augured well. He’d arrived in a place he could call his own. A place where he could finally be content. Where no more enemies stood against him.
“There,” said Carnella, pointing to the horizon.
Roused him from his meditation, Clive opened his eyes to find Carnella pointing off into the distance. He followed the line of her finger to a settlement a few miles ahead. It was twice the size of the halfling village he’d sacked, made up of cramped houses covered by rough thatch and surrounded by a low wall that would prove less than useless against his giant.
“And there’s plenty more where that came from,” added the Night Queen.
Clive nodded and ordered the giant to march on the distant settlement. As he prepared himself for battle, blood coursed in his temples. He felt a tremendous pressure inside his skull and winced at the discomfort. Growing pains, he thought. Proof that he was thriving. He put the pain aside and buried it somewhere deep.
“That daughter of mine was always too soft,” said Carnella, clinging onto the giant’s left pinky as they closed the distance to the doomed settlement. “Content to idle away in her tower why her minions wore away at her enemies like a gentle stream on a rock face. Not you though. You are a man of vision. A man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty taking it.”
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